


Tattered Dreams

by ChibiStarr



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Blood, Psychological Torture, Sauron is doing his favorite activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 12:57:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiStarr/pseuds/ChibiStarr
Summary: Maedhros has spent so long imprisoned that he has no idea what is real anymore.





	Tattered Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> For you, my dear, now that I've finally gotten around to posting this. ;)

No matter how many years passed since his rescue from Thangorodrim, it still felt as if those impossibly tall mountains were still looming over Maedhros’s shoulder no matter where he went. On the flattest plain, near the widest ocean, at the top of his own mountains, he could still feel the presence behind him as if he had never left. He was afraid to turn around, lest his fears turn out to be correct and he would be met with their sight filling his vision and the confirmation of this all being another hopeless, tormented dream.

He remembered the pain, still. It was one of the things that never, ever left him.

He hadn’t been in his forge since he had come back. He could see the concerned looks from his brothers when they thought he wasn’t watching, could almost hear their whispers whenever he walked away.

_Maybe he is mad. Maybe the torture did something to him. How can he be the High King now if he can’t even be a smith?_

_Maitimo was always_ _bossing us around_ _. Now look at him, he walks around like a ghost._

_Hold your tongue! That is your King you are talking about!_

Maedhros clenched his hands together, feeling his nails digging into his soft flesh. Bitter, sharp anger flared to life on his tongue, every beat of his living heart sending another flow of hatred to feed it. Those _selfish…_ what did they know? They were the ones who _abandoned_ him! Rescuing him was too hard, they said, he was probably dead by now anyway. All because not a single one of his own brothers decided to bother to check and see if he had been alive or not!

All of what he endured, they had a hand in making. Everything he suffered at the hands of Sauron because of their carelessness!

A shudder wracked his frame at the thought of his captor’s name, as if the mere thought could summon him. Maedhros could see shadows of him wherever he went, a phantom of his mind that refused to let him have rest. How could he explain the reason he couldn’t go to the forge was because every time he looked at the fire he saw _him?_ The golden color of his eyes, the radiance that drifted from his skin like the light of a flame, the intense heat he could sometimes feel when Sauron got too close, hot enough to make his skin want to peel away as if he was being roasted alive. Maedhros thanked all of the Valar in Valinor that red hair was not common among the Ñoldor, if he saw such flaming hair among someone else he had no idea how he would react. The only reason he even tolerated his own was because it was not at all the right shade, a much darker red like wine.

Sometimes when he wandered the halls he imagined he could hear the Maia’s voice calling to him, playfully singing his name like he so loved to do as he drew closer to his cell. The sight of a knife was enough to make him pause, mouth dry as he _remembered._ He rubbed his wrists, touched the old scars with the tips of his fingers, remembering where his skin had parted under the blade and Sauron’s nails wiggled under to _pull—_

In his sleep it was the worst, his weak mind letting down its barriers and flooding him with the nightmares. Sauron above him, smiling at him in that sickening way that made his blood run cold, the light of the candles reflecting off of the liquid staining his fingers and his blade. With all the gentleness of a lover, the Maia brought the knife to his lips and delicately licked the blade in a sly, almost cattish manner.

_“Mmm, you always taste so sweet Maitimo,”_ Sauron whispered to him, the light of his eyes flaring brighter in their delight.

His other hand, one Maedhros had until this moment been entirely unaware of, _squeezed_  and Maedhros gasped as he felt the fingers _inside_ of him, pulling on something in his _chest—_

His screaming was still echoing off the walls when hands shook him awake. “ _Maitimo!”_ a familiar, much more welcome voice shouted into his ears to jolt him awake. His eyes fluttered open and Fingon was there, as he always was, hovering over him and stroking his face gently in his hands. “Maitimo,” Fingon whispered again, seeing he was awake. “Shh, it’s over now. Remember where you are?”

The feeling of soft, cool sheets wrapping around his body. The sound of trickling water and night birds singing outside, the wind sighing in the trees. His scent and Fingon’s rich in his nose as he inhaled, pressing against the bed they shared, forcing the sensations to imprint into his mind. Yes, this was real, he remembered. “Yes,” he whispered, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, I—“

“Hush, there is nothing to apologize for,” Fingon replied, kisses raining down on his eyelids, wiping away the tears that had started to form there. He was always so gentle, had done nothing but care for him after his rescue even though he had every reason to hate him for what he and his father had done to Fingolfin. “I’m here, see?” He lifted Maedhros’s hand to his face, the curve of his smiling cheek fitting precisely into Maedhros’s palm like it had always done.

Maedhros felt a weak, relieved smile skating across his lips. He stroked Fingon’s face with his thumb, relishing in the feeling, and then on impulse pulled him closer, desperate to have the other in his arms. “Stay with me,” he whispered, clenching his fingers across Fingon’s back, as if he could hold him there forever. “Please.”

A hand stroked down his chest, bringing forth another wave of shudders from him. It was like the touch was everywhere, imprinting onto every single nerve of his which had all suddenly become very aware of how it trailed lower and lower down his body. “Oh, my sweet Maitimo,” Fingon whispered to him, catching his lips in a slow, sensual kiss.

“I’m not going _anywhere.”_

Terror flooded Maedhros’s veins and his eyes flew open because _that was not Fingon’s voice._ Eyes as golden as flames and just as bright burned into his vision, marred only by the slit pupils slicing through them, their light made all the more intense and piercing by the sheer _glee_ in Sauron’s face.

He _shrieked,_ no this couldn’t be real please let this one not be real another nightmare please please—

Shackles gripped his wrists as he tried to thrash and the pain of his lacerated skin digging into the iron brought him ever deeper into this crystalline clarity, where Sauron’s fingers stroked his face precisely the same way Fingon’s had a moment ago. But Fingon had felt real too, please let this just be another horrid lie.

Sauron’s lips crashed down on his own, swallowing his screams with an echo of a moan responding in his own throat. Maedhros shuddered in disgust and at whatever feeling just coiled deep in his gut, something he refused to acknowledge because he _would not_.

“Hello sweetling,” Sauron whispered to him as he broke away, his other hand still trailing down and Maedhros felt his heart stutter in his chest when he remembered it. “I missed you.”


End file.
